


Closer (Unrequited)

by surfgirl (verushka70)



Category: due South
Genre: Drama, Episode Related, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1999-04-22
Updated: 1999-04-22
Packaged: 2018-11-11 05:22:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,303
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11141841
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/verushka70/pseuds/surfgirl
Summary: An alternate ending to Reciprocation. Angst-ometer reading: high.





	Closer (Unrequited)

**Author's Note:**

> This story was once archived at [Due South Archive](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Due_South_Archive). It has not been changed (nor will it be) on import to the AO3, except to more appropriately or descriptively tag, and to fix broken web links. Ever so grateful to [Open Doors](http://opendoors.transformativeworks.org/) and to [Speranza](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Speranza/pseuds/Speranza), for making the archive import to AO3 happen. TYK!

I should do more. I should do more than just clasp his shoulder. His shaking shoulder.

But I can not. Oh, physically I am capable of doing it. That is not the problem. 

Ray is just naturally warmer than I am. Like Ray Vecchio. They're both so easy with themselves and with others. Or so it seems to me. Both Ray and Ray can put their arm around someone and it is perfectly natural and unaffected. They have both done it to me. 

But that isn't me. 

I've wished so often that I could be like them. That I could be capable of that kind of warmth, that easy affection. It just doesn't feel right, though. Much of the time, it makes me uncomfortable to touch people without their express verbal permission. 

In some circumstances, I have done so, but only when I felt implicit permission was given by the person's actions towards me. By their overtures. But mostly they reach out to me. I don't reach out to them. Even if we've established a relationship wherein that is acceptable, rarely am I the outgoing one. 

I guess that might be because I'm never sure if it will be reciprocated. Its hard enough to reach out and touch, truly _touch_ another human, even with no desire for anything else on my part. I feel so... separate from others. I know that I am quite different from most people. That is hard enough to overcome -- that feeling of being separate, the fear that they would not want my contact. 

But if I were then rebuffed... No, that kind of pain is something I'd rather avoid. It's easier with people I don't know very well, or people I know I won't be seeing again, once the case is over. A moment of human to human contact, to let them know that someone is actually concerned about them _that_ I can do. 

But with someone I know and see regularly... The closer I am to them, the harder it is to physically reach out. As if my walls are higher with the people I care about the most, rather than with strangers. I guess being rebuffed by someone close to me would be rather more wounding than I am prepared to deal with. Especially with someone I might have to see every day for days upon days afterward. Whereas with strangers, it is much more easily shrugged off. 

Oh, I don't think of being rebuffed as being slapped or pushed. One can be rebuffed in so many subtle ways. A stiffening of the body or of the limb under one's hand. A smile without the telltale crinkling at the corners of the eye. A slight shrinking back. These are all indications that the physical contact isn't wanted. 

It seems somehow I don't know "the language" of touch. I am afraid that I will inadvertently "say" the wrong thing because of this. I do not want to be misinterpreted, especially by the people I most care about. Therefore it's just best not to do it at all. 

And then, I am also afraid of what I might inadvertently reveal. I have kept it quiet and tamped it down, into a small, slightly annoying burden I carry everywhere I go with Ray. As such, it is easily kept hidden and Ray will never know. Were I to lower the walls around me, though, he might be more casually affectionate than he already is... more physical. I don't think I would handle an increase in physical affection from Ray very well. 

And I could not continue to hide my true feelings, I suspect. Even if I were capable of easy affection with Ray, Mrs. Kowalski, as Ray has said, did not "raise no fool". One day, I wouldn't drop the mask over my expression fast enough... or my voice would tremble... or my hand would shake. 

Ray is quite adept at sizing up physical cues. And if he thought anything was up,  he'd never let it go. Not until he knew "what was up". So I maintain my detachment and seeming aloofness. 

It's just as well. I don't know how to do anything else anymore. Even if I did, I can't risk Ray finding out how I really feel. I'd rather keep that to myself. There's no need for him to ever know. 

Not because I think Ray would change his entire attitude towards me. He very well might, though... probably for the worse. 

No, because I can not conceive of him ever reciprocating the feeling. 

Better to say nothing. I've hid everything quite well. I am quite sure no one knows. Especially not Ray. 

Occasionally certain other people can detect things in me, when they choose to be so observant. Francesca, for example, is as shrewd as any detective might be in an interview with a suspect. I suppose this is borne of her constant vigilance, her eternal hope to see more than a brotherly fondness and respect in my actions towards her. But even Francesca, I am sure, is unaware. Possibly because we rarely see what we don't want to see... 

Ray may suspect something. But then, he has hardly been as casual and flippant with me since the incident on the Great Lakes freighter, as he was before. When I stop to think about it, he's been much more... intense... with me since that time. I'm glad neither of us took the transfers we were offered. 

Ray has certainly noticed what few dalliances with women I've had since he's known me. He hasn't been quite as shrewd as Francesca might have been, under the same circumstances. Still, I was touched by his concern that Denny Scarpa was "reeling me in", as he would say. His actions when Quinn and I were being held hostage quite surprised me. Reckless as they might have been crashing through a window on a motorcycle isn't quite the same as an organized siege by a SWAT team I was more moved than I could reveal. 

But in some ways, that made things more difficult for me, though I'll be eternally grateful. It sparked that dim hope in me again, the tiny flame for Ray, which I keep trying to douse, but which stays lit, no matter how much cold water is thrown upon it. But it also raised the opposite possibility: that perhaps Ray thinks he "owes me" for saving his life on the Great Lakes freighter when we were trapped inside and she was sinking fast. That he somehow will always be trying to repay that "debt". 

I will probably never know which it really is. 

It all comes back to that, it always does -- that life-saving technique. The buddy breathing. I didn't think it would affect anything. Actually, I didn't think at all. I thought he was drowning -- he very nearly did so I acted without thinking. I did what I had to do in order to save him. I would have done anything to make sure Ray was all right. 

I had no idea it would stick in my thoughts like those burrs that Dief gets when he runs through the woods. It was all I could do the next couple of weeks to keep my eyes open and see what was in front of me, instead of what I wanted to see. Thoughts of the buddy breathing worked their way deeper into my mind, tangled themselves into my everyday waking moments. And my dreams at night. My brain, unfettered in sleep, would attach wild significance to the act, would enact alternate endings, embellished scenarios. And these would invade my conscious thoughts without warning, during the day. Often while I was with Ray. 

How, I wondered, how could I be so low, as to take advantage of Ray when he was at his weakest and most vulnerable? How could I take pleasure from something that was as necessary as my own breathing giving breath to Ray? 

And yet I had. It was something to be savoured slowly, in those last hazy moments before dropping off into sleep. Even if accompanied by great amounts of guilt. 

Since then, though, I have reached some conclusions. One, I am overreacting. Two, I didn't really take advantage of Ray when we did the buddy breathing. I did it exactly by the book. Nothing untoward happened. Nothing inappropriate occurred. Three, if I had not done it, Ray would most likely have drowned. These few points eased my guilt. Oh, I still feel guilty about savouring the memories, about embellishing them. But that's not nearly as bad as my fear that I had somehow broken my own code of honour, that I had used someone, used a situation, unnecessarily and for my own pleasure or gain. 

I think what made me worry that I'd somehow taken advantage of him was Ray's reaction. "So, like, nothing's changed between us?" he asked. 

That he would say that made me wonder... what was he thinking? What did I do? 

But I hadn't done anything, of course. At the time, I didn't even spare a thought to doing anything but getting breath in Ray's body and getting him out of there. 

How it haunted me the next few weeks, though. It was all I could do to suppress the waking thoughts of what that would have been like, but with Ray dry, and on land. The thought of how that fine, spiky hair would feel under my hands... how his lips would feel, warm and dry, until they parted and revealed the moisture inside them... The possibility that the yielding of his body was from a reciprocated desire, not from being close to passing out for lack of air. 

These thoughts were banished eventually. For the most part... 

Stop, Benton, just stop. Ray needs you now. He might need more from you than just a shoulder clasp while he's falling apart. 

"It's all right, Ray. It's all right. It all turned out all right. ...I know you meant to do the right thing, and we did. You mustn't blame yourself. What's done is done. Let's be grateful that it turned out as it did. There is justice and charity in this world. ...No, no, it wasn't your fault. How could you have known? As you say, you were a rookie. The corruption you didn't know... 

"Of _course_ you could have done it without me, Ray! ....Well, I guess I helped somewhat. But it was your decision. Your motivation that saw all of this through. ....Yes, yes it was. ...No, Ray, I was merely trying to be your partner. Trying to be supportive. ...Well, I know, but how can you expect me to " 

Ooof. He's on me. Oh, dear. Ray Kowalski sobbing wretchedly in my stiff arms. 

I shouldn't be so stiff. Wasn't I just thinking a rebuff is indicated by such stiffness? I can't be this stiff, unyielding piece of wood. What he needs I'm such an idiot isn't man to man talk. He simply needs a hug. Physical reassurance. But in this case, I'm not stiff because this is unwanted attention or physical contact. 

No, I am stiff because I have armoured myself against this _wanted_ physical contact. So that I won't like it too much. So that I won't hold him too long. So that I won't reveal how I really feel. 

Right now, fortunately, I don't have to worry much about becoming aroused or even simply hopeful. This isn't about anything but Ray's need for contact right now, so it's "safe". I can do this. I can relax and loosen up. I can hold him and pat his back. 

I'm afraid the shoulder of my jacket is getting rather... well, tears and mucous will come out in the wash. I am patting his back and holding him to me. It is ...well, under other circumstances, which will never happen, it would be... wonderful. But now it's just Ray needing me. He is crushed and spent and relieved and sickened at the close call of Beth Botrelle's last minute stay of execution. And he is miserable with despising himself for not figuring the case out years ago when it happened, resulting in her conviction and death sentence. And very nearly her death. 

And he needs me to hug him back and tell him soothing things and calm him. And that's fine. If this is all that shall ever come my way with Ray, that's fine. Right now, I am allowed to hold him and I take no advantage of this. I give what he needs right now. What I need doesn't matter. This is simply for Ray. 

Hopefully it will help him see that it wasn't his fault, that he couldn't control all aspects of the investigation, that he did his job to the best of his ability. And this is to provide those reassurances with the much more _tangible_ reassurance of a hug. A kind of intimate but not sexual contact, a human-to-human expression of caring and comfort, which goes beyond words. A simple physical "I am here" which communicates that I care about him, want to comfort him, and do not think he is the terrible person that _he_ thinks he is. 

Tonight, before I fall asleep, long moments in the dark will be spent going over and over this in my mind. Guilt will seep in to my conscious mind, even as my unconscious mind recalls these moments and embellishes them with a romantic aggression I do not possess, a reciprocal response Ray would never have, and an exciting sensuality which is not happening. Which is not going to happen. Not now, not ever. And which I have come to accept. 

But these moments will stay indelibly imprinted on my mind. The simultaneous pleasure and torture of recalling and adding fantasy elements to them \-- will occupy my mind for many nights to come. Eventually the guilt or the sorrow of knowing that reality will never match my imaginings \-- will slowly kill the pleasure associated with these moments and my later imaginings. And I will stop thinking about these moments except in fleeting wistful seconds, often when Ray and I are together. 

I have found out, the hard way, that trying _not_ to think of something virtually guarantees that one _will_ think of nothing else. In testing the causal relationship, I have axiomatically determined that if I think about something constantly, think about it very thoroughly, think it "out" of my system, then the thought loses its power to trouble me. This at least has given my conscience enough of a rationale to indulge such thoughts and flights of fancy without too much guilt, initially. Over time this strange rule of thought, and its axiom, seem to have been proven true. The thoughts of Ray bother me much less. 

This will, of course, be the crutch of justification I need to guiltlessly (for the most part) indulge thoughts of what is and is not happening here in Ray's car right now, while I am waiting for sleep to come in my bedroll tonight. 

"It's okay now, Ray. It is all right. She's safe. She didn't die. Even if she... Ray, it wasn't your fault. ...No, it wasn't. You did your best. That was all you could do. The wrongful conviction, the sentence you had nothing to do with that. ...No. You know that. What new officer would challenge the authority of a detective or state's attorney? 

"Ray, it is a testament to your conscience, to your intuition, that you _knew_ something wasn't right, that something was missing. And you made up your mind to chase down the last detail that was unsettling you freeing an innocent woman in the process. ...Yes. It was you, Ray. Not me. I just helped. But I have a feeling that even if I hadn't been around if I hadn't been there to help you you would have doggedly investigated on your own. ...I know you. And I know the kind of man you are." 

There. That set him back on his feet, so to speak he's back on his side of the car now. I feel terrible, though. Not for myself, but for him. He blames himself so terribly for all of this. But Beth Botrelle was convicted and sentenced to death because of another man's actions. Not Ray's. 

I tell him how much I wish I could make him believe it was not his fault. I tell him I wish I could take away his terrible anguish. 

For the first time since he got into the car, he speaks without shuddering or sobbing. Haltingly, but much more coherently than before. 

"Fraser..." 

He begins again. 

"Fraser, I can't..." 

He trails off again, looking away from me, out the window. I inhale to say something, and then stop. I'm not sure what to say and he seems about to speak again. He turns back to face me, but doesn't look me in the eye. He looks at my side of the dashboard. 

"Frase... tonight..." 

And then it hits me. I can't believe I didn't think of it until now. 

Ray cannot possibly be alone tonight. Not tonight. Not with this burden on his soul. I don't know if I can lighten his burden. He is so much harder on himself than anyone else is. But I should try. I must do what I can. 

And I am his friend. So far as I know, his _only_ friend. I must do what he needs, even if he doesn't know what he needs, or can't say it, if he does. 

But, oh God! How can I? I joke about the sacrifices I make for the Queen, but this in no way compromises my duty to her. It only compromises my longings, my unreciprocated feelings. 

Still, I must make the effort. After all Ray's done for me, I _must_ do everything I can for him now. I have a duty to _Ray._

"Fraser..." 

"Ray. Would you like me to drive?" I ask him, trying to be gentle but firm. He probably should not be driving, in the state he's in. 

He inhales sharply, as if to burst out with a denial, but then slowly exhales through tightened lips. 

"Okay." 

He pauses, turns to me but won't look at me, and then abruptly turns away, to the door, and opens it. He steps out. 

I, too, open my door and step out. Ray is still on his side of the car. His arms are folded on top of the car, and his forehead rests on his arms. Poor Ray. I don't think he has really believed anything I've said to him about this case, about his role in it. More than anything else -- more than anything I want for myself -- I wish I could convince him it wasn't his fault. 

I walk silently around to the driver's side of the car. He is still sagged against the car, his head on his forearms. 

"Come on, Ray," I say. He doesn't move at first, and then he slowly straightens up. 

He seems to have aged a decade in this one evening. He slouches, but not with the panther like insouciance I am used to observing in him. He slouches like an old man. And, like I am helping an old man, I take his elbow and steer him around to the passenger side of his sleek GTO. He seems physically drained, almost child-like while he stands there. Belatedly I realize I should open the door -- he seems lost in thought. After I open the door, he blinks at it, and then looks at me. 

"What were we doing?" 

"We're going home," I tell him. Would that that were true! "I'm driving you home, Ray. You really should not be driving at a time like this." 

"Oh, yeah," he says listlessly. He gets into the car and I shut the door after making certain he's all in. 

Upon returning to the driver's side and getting behind the wheel, I realize he's just staring straight ahead. 

"Ray," I say gently. No response. But, then, this is nothing new, really. I try again. "Ray. Ray. Ray. Ray. Ray." 

"What, Fraser," comes dully from the other side of the car. He hasn't moved. 

"Would you please put your seat belt on?" I ask him, expecting an argument. It is just like him to be upset about something, and take it out in a completely different direction, or on a completely different person -- like arguing with me about something petty. I brace myself. 

"Oh," he responds listlessly again. "Yeah." He slowly puts his seat belt on. 

The lack of an argument or even a smart comeback makes me worry. Ray is as far from his normal self as I have ever seen him, I think. I turn the key and start the car. He leans back in the seat with the posture of... well, of a wet noodle. He is going to need much more than just to be driven home. 

I remind myself that what I may go through tonight, in terms of a personal hell, will be nothing like the hell Ray is in right now. 

For once, my driving is not a subject for discussion with Ray. But of course not. I look over as I drive slowly and carefully, and see that his face is slowly settling into a bitter and brooding expression. His eyes, red rimmed, stare through the windshield. But I know they do not see what is before them. They look, but they do not see. They are looking at something very far away: Ray's past. The night he found Beth Botrelle's husband dead in their living room, and Beth herself in the shower, water washing away the blood. 

This is very bad, but I am uncertain what to do. Saying something light-hearted will, for obvious reasons, probably infuriate him. Though I have an Inuit story in mind, I'm afraid that, too, would be most unwelcome at this time. Oh, dear. What can I do? 

And then we are at his apartment building. I drive into the numbered spot for Ray's car, and then turn it off. He is still staring blindly ahead, eyes lost and far away. 

"Come on, Ray," I say as firmly but calmly as possible. "You're home now." 

He blinks, shuts his eyes, and hangs his head. Ordinarily I would not do this, but this is not an ordinary night, and Ray is not his ordinary self. I reach out and squeeze his upper arm. I can't help thinking how nice this would be under other circumstances... but now it is just to gently get him moving. He opens his eyes and swivels his head to look at me. 

"Let's get you upstairs, Ray," I say firmly. He blinks at me, and then begins unbuckling his seat belt. In a flash I have mine off, I have the keys in my hand, and I am out of the car. By the time Ray's hand is on the inside door handle, I have pocketed the keys, shut the driver's side door, and I am opening the door for him. He looks up at me, focusing his eyes. 

"What is up with you?" he asks me, rather unreasonably. But then, unreasonable behaviour is a reasonable reaction to what he's been through these past few days. 

"Nothing," I say cheerfully, hauling him to his feet as soon as he has his feet out of the car. 

"Uh..." He looks at me, suspicion just beginning to pass across his features. Well, it's a vast improvement over that dead look in his eyes. I've seen eyes more alive on dead fish. 

"Let's get you upstairs, Ray, all right?" I've shut the door and his elbow is in my hand again. I don't grip it tightly, but I am firmly holding it and simultaneously steering him towards the door. Surprisingly, he does not resist, and lets me push him ahead of me. 

In the stairwell, he pauses on the landing and turns to look at me \-- but doesn't meet my eyes. 

"You don't have to come up with me," he says gruffly, affecting an annoyed air. "I can take care of myself." 

"Of course you can, Ray," I lie with a smoothness learned from him. He's not very good at it, but he has been a good coach. "I'm just going to make sure you get something in your stomach. You do need to eat something. You haven't eaten anything since 3:23pm yesterday afternoon." This is only partially true. Though I myself avoid spirits, I think that bottle of Scotch in his kitchen cabinet may come in handy. 

"Oh." He pauses, measuring my artificially cheerful demeanour, and then shrugs. "Ain't got no food in the house, Fraser," he says and turns to continue up the stairs. There's no bounding up the stairs like there would usually be. 

"I'm sure you've got something, Ray," I say quietly, not trying to push too hard. Walking up the stairs behind him is simultaneously pleasant and difficult. His narrow rear end moves with each step, moves in front of my eyes. I'm so low as to be noticing such a thing at such at time, but I can chastise myself later. For now, I just watch it and try to keep my footing and stride on the stairs. 

Mercifully we're at his apartment door. He fumbles in his pockets for his keys, and then finds them. He's not drunk but it takes him three tries before he can get the key in the lock. His hands are shaking. 

Oh, Ray. I wish you didn't think you had to maintain some kind of outward appearance that betrays no emotion, at such an emotional time. I know it is his natural reaction to his loss of "cool", as he would call it. But it is so unnecessary. I've seen him in so many "uncool" moments that this one makes no difference. Ray Kowalski, the Ray I know, isn't "cool"... and that is a good thing. 

Upon entering, he makes a beeline for the bathroom. I pause, shutting the door behind me, wondering just how far I should go. I am not quite certain that he won't hurt himself. I take my coat off and toss it onto an overstuffed chair. I can hear him urinating, so apparently he is doing what he ostensibly went in there to do. That's a good sign. 

I head into the kitchen and start opening the cupboards, to see what I can make him. Even a can of soup would be fine. And in the short cabinet high above the sink, yes, there is that bottle of Scotch. I take it down and set it beside the sink. 

Minutes later, he is standing quietly in the kitchen. I turn from the cabinets across from the sink and see him watching me. 

"Fraser." He pauses. "What are you doin'?" He feigns interest, but his eyes, once again, aren't really on me. They look at me, but they're looking through me, at something very far away. 

"I'm going to make you something to eat, Ray, and I'm going to make you some tea," I say quite firmly. The milk in his refrigerator has gone sour, but it was skim milk anyway. There's a tiny can of frozen orange juice in his freezer. I debate whether I should make that, or make tea first, and then boil the rotini I found and heat the can of spaghetti sauce. Perhaps I'll just boil the rotini first... 

No. I see him sway, just slightly, and I think that perhaps a Scotch over ice would be appropriate now. I open the bottle. 

"Have a seat, Ray," I tell him, simultaneously hoping and fearing that he _won't_ fight me. He looks around, and then pulls a chair out from the small kitchen table. I tear the paper seal on the bottle of Scotch and open it. 

"Tell me about the dance classes you took with Stella as a child, Ray," I ask him. He looks up at me, with a confused look on his face. 

"What?" 

"Dance lessons. You told me you took dance lessons with Stella when you were children. So, what kinds of dances did you learn?" 

"You want me to tell you about my dance lessons." It's a statement, not a question. Nevertheless, I answer it as if it were a question. 

"Yes, I've always wondered what it must have been like. I must say, I rather envy you. I didn't learn formal dance until I was in training to become a Mountie. I'm afraid that, unlike you, dance doesn't come naturally to me. I can be all left feet." 

"Two left feet." 

"Two left feet," I agree, getting ice cubes from the freezer, putting them into a fake crystal tumbler, and pouring a half inch of Scotch over them. I swirl the ice cubes around a bit, then cross the narrow kitchen to where Ray sits at the small table. "Here, drink this." I hand him the glass and return to the kitchen. There's a dirty pot in the sink, but I wash it and fill it with water from the tap. This goes onto the right front burner of the stove, which initially refuses to light. Then I spy the book of matches on the back of the stove -- no doubt for just this situation. By the coating of dust on the book of matches, it's obvious Ray doesn't cook much; but I knew that. 

"Dance lessons," Ray begins slowly. His eyes are far away again, but at least his features have slackened. That hard and brooding look I noticed in the car softens. "I wasn't even really into it. But she was takin' em. You know, good breeding and all that. She was a Gold Coast girl, after all... I thought, if anyone finds out about this, I'm dead, they're gonna call me fairy boy and beat me up every day... But I just wanted to do whatever she was doing. It came in handy later. Lotsa guys can't dance..." 

I let him go on like that, making listening noises ("Ah." "Mmm-hmm." "Tsk") and inserting questions (when appropriate) during his pauses. He took one sip from the glass of Scotch, but no more. But at least he is still holding it. The rotini are boiling away. The left front burner lit without the matches. The spaghetti sauce -- far too salty, and with MSG -- is heating nicely. Slow bubbles rise to the surface, lightly spattering red sauce around the pot, onto the enamel of the stove. 

When the rotini are done, he is still talking, if haltingly. He continues only when I prompt him, but I've been prompting him a lot. I use the lid of the pot to drain the rotini. My brief explorations of Ray's kitchen cabinets has not turned up a colander, and I do not want to leave the room and break the conversation to look in his pantry. 

With the rotini drained, I take a plate from the cabinet (the ones in the dish drainer are, unfortunately, dusty) and pour the rotini from the pot onto the plate. I leave about half in the pot. I then pour the sauce directly from the smaller pot onto the rotini. I could use serving spoons and serving plates, but I'm afraid he will soon lapse into inactivity again. I want to get some food into him before that happens. 

I take the plate, set it in front of him as he mumbles about the difficulties of the fox-trot, and take the glass of Scotch from him. I set the glass of Scotch on the counter and start a kettle boiling for tea. He hasn't taken more than a sip of the Scotch, but that's fine. It will go into his tea. 

And then I hand him a fork and spoon. I get another plate, and pour half of the remaining half of the rotini on it, and pour some spaghetti sauce over them, for myself. I set my plate down on the kitchen table, take a couple paper towels and hand one to Ray, and seat myself at the table. 

Ray is just sitting there, holding the spoon and fork in the same hand I put them. He has not taken a bite of the steaming food in front of him. For a moment, a sensual picture of me feeding him rises in my mind. But I shake that off and try to smile at Ray. 

"Ray, you haven't tasted the rotini. Don't let it get cold. Is it too salty? Not salty enough? I believe you like things to be on the saltier side--" 

"Fraser," he interrupts, looking up from the floor to my face. "What're you doing? Why are you doing this? Cut out this 'capable Mountie' crap." The last bit somewhat meanly. 

I set down my fork and spoon, watching the steam rise from my plate, then his. 

"Ray," I begin. But I'm not sure what to say. What can I say? I can't make it better, but I'm doing my best? I care very much about him? I care more about him than anyone now? 

No. None of that will do. But perhaps the simplest and most obvious explanation will work. I hate to do it, but I reach out and grasp his forearm. Ordinarily I wouldn't, but he needs some physical reminder that I am here for a reason. His forearm... I've seen the long, lean muscles rippling when he carries something, sights down his gun, or shoots pool. Who would think such an obvious body part could be so... attractive. With an effort I push that out of my mind, even as I feel the wiry muscles under my hand. 

"Because, Ray," I begin again, "you're my friend. You happen to be having a hard time right now. I'm just trying to do what I can for you. Admittedly that isn't very much." 

He just looks at me, his eyes narrowing slightly. Then he looks at the plate of steaming food, and sets the spoon down. His expression softens somewhat. He repositions the fork in his hand and begins stabbing at rotini. He looks the first mouthful over very carefully before putting it in his mouth. Over his fork he looks at me. 

With his mouth full, and while he is chewing, he says quietly, "Thanks, Frase." 

This makes the idea of being so near and yet so far from him tonight more bearable. 

* * * 

A couple of hours later, and a few mugs of hot tea (with Scotch) later... he is dozing fitfully in his corner of the couch as we both watch his television. I don't really want to watch TV, but... I'm not sure what to do. I suppose I shouldn't let him sleep on the couch. Yet the intimacy of putting him to bed terrifies me. 

His chin has fallen onto his chest and his mouth is open. Even in such an undignified position, he is beautiful to me. His hair is dishevelled, but it only makes him look more naturally attractive. His expression has softened. The lines at the corners of his eyes, in his forehead, are gone. The shape of his skull is prominent under his scalp and face. The hollows under his cheek bones... a slight hollow at his temple... All of these things I notice. I can look and look, tonight, and he won't know. 

He snuffles a little and then his head lists to the side. Soon enough he has leaned it back on the back of the couch. Now he is snoring... and quite loudly, though not quite as bad as Diefenbaker. Every once in a while, he suffers a sleep apnea spasm -- he stops breathing. I know that some people do this all night long. I may even do it myself, when I am asleep -- I don't know for certain, since I cannot observe myself in my sleep. But I also know that apnea is a suspected cause of sudden infant death syndrome. 

I will have to put him to bed. Oh, Lord, how I am tested! It is as if the fates are conspiring to dangle what I most want right in front of my nose... while I know that I must not take it, I _must_ not. 

What to do... All right. First things first -- the television gets turned off. Having accomplished that after a detailed study of the very complex remote control, I turn and look again at my partner, Ray Kowalski. 

His left hand is palm up next to him, his arm lying loosely against the back of the couch and his body. 

His hands... how I've thought of them. So often. They're not small \-- they are large, but the slenderness of his fingers makes them seem sensitive, almost delicate. I never see him do it, but his nails look as if he _might_ nibble them. The palm... it looks soft. His fingers are slightly curled in on it. I think about the touch of his fingers... what his fingertips might feel like. I wonder how they felt to his ex-wife Stella when they were together, where Ray's fingertips went on her body when he touched her... I wonder how they would feel on me, where those fingertips could roam on my body...  I realize that I long to stretch his fingers out and stroke his palm. To see if it feels as soft as it looks. 

It probably doesn't, and I will drive myself mad if I keep thinking these thoughts. 

Once again, I grasp his forearm. Gently, I shake it. He stirs slightly, his head listing to the side. 

I tug on his forearm again. This time he jerks awake, looking wildly around before his eyes settle on me. Bleary eyes. 

"Fraser." He looks down at my hand on his arm. "Fraser... what happened? What are you doing?" 

"I'm waking you up, Ray," I say. "You can't sleep on the couch. It will be terrible for your back." 

"I've slept on the couch before." 

"Yes, but you can't stretch out on it because I'm on it with you." Oh, dear. That didn't come out right. I try again: "Ordinarily, Ray, I would have gotten up to leave a while ago..." I trail off, hurriedly releasing his forearm from my grasp. 

"Yeah, you would," he agrees, calmer and yawning again. When the yawn is over, he looks straight ahead at the dark television set. By the way he slouches slightly and sinks just a bit lower into the couch, I can tell that now he remembers everything that happened today, that it has all come back to him. The lines reappear at the corners of his eyes. "You stayed instead, huh?" 

I gulp. I can only nod. 

He looks over, his faced shadowed. But he speaks more quietly and gently than I expect. 

"Thanks, Frase." He leans forward and puts his head in his hands. "I can't believe it. I just can't believe it, Fraser. How she... she almost..." He puts his hands over his face and stops speaking, but his shoulders tremble. Ray inhales deeply, but with an oddly strangled sound. A stifled whimper escapes in, and then he exhales slowly, like air leaking from a tire, his shoulders straightening. He wipes his face with his hands and sniffs. 

He looks up at me and squares his shoulders. His eyes are shining again. I don't know what to say... I don't think there _is_ anything I could say, but I wish there were. 

I stand, uncertainly. He lurches to his feet, somewhat unsteadily. 

"I just can't believe what a day this has been," he says, much more quietly. 

"The day is over, Ray," I tell him gently. "It's time to get some rest, right?" 

"Right," he agrees. He turns to walk around the coffee table, and almost trips. "Whoa!" 

"I think you've had... a fair amount of liquor tonight, Ray," I tell him, moving closer to catch him if he should actually fall. "I'm also afraid it's my fault entirely," I admit. 

He turns to look at me curiously, swaying slightly on his feet. Those five parallel lines crease his forehead. "It's your fault?" 

"I put Scotch in your tea. Rather more than you would normally drink, I think." I hang my head. Now it doesn't seem like such a good idea as it did then. 

Surprisingly, he moves towards me. I feel utterly paralyzed at his advance: can't move away from him, can't move toward him. 

"S'okay, Fraser," he says, and puts a hand out on my shoulder. Then the other hand on my other shoulder. "I knew it. I could taste it. You were only doing what you thought was best, right?" 

I can only nod, imprisoned as I feel by his touch. I hope that the trembling of my body doesn't give me away. 

"So, thanks," he says again. 

I nod again. Struck mute. 

He releases my shoulders, turns to go and almost trips over the coffee table again. This time, when he overbalances the opposite direction so as not to fall, he falls backward back onto the couch. 

He shakes his head. "I'm really drunk. Wow. A _Mountie_ got me drunk," he teases me, just a little. This is a good sign. 

"It was for your own good, Ray," I stammer. 

He dismisses that with a wave of his hand, smiling slightly. "'Course." 

I have to do something, so I step towards him and hold out my hand. 

He hauls himself to his feet, holding my hand the entire time. Once he is on his feet, he doesn't release my hand. Well, he _does_ , but not immediately, not very quickly. 

This is somewhat thrilling. I'm getting a feeling, a feeling of... 

Oh, stop being ridiculous. He didn't hold your hand because he wanted to or because he has reciprocal feelings for you. He held your hand because he is drunk and was having a hard time staying steady on his feet. 

"Let's get you to bed, Ray," I firmly tell him. I need to get this over with as soon as possible. 

"Right." He turns to walk away, but since he's going in the same direction he almost fell before, I grab his elbow. I steer his body before me, so that is isn't touching my body. 

He stumbles a bit and bangs his knee once. But it is not a forceful blow, as it might be if his body were under his command. 

Under his command... right now it is under _my_ command. 

And I will do nothing. Nothing at all. Except steer him through the living room to the bedroom hallway and into his bedroom. And to his bed. Which I do. 

He sits down, flopping backwards onto the bed. He looks up at the ceiling, but then closes his eyes tiredly. 

"Ahhhh. Fraser. What a night. What a day. What a freakin' ordeal." 

He doesn't move. 

"You'll be all right, then, Ray?" I ask, beginning to edge out of the bedroom. 

"Mmmmm." 

"I take that as a yes?" 

No sound now. Then, I hear the beginnings of that snuffling sound of snoring and apnea returning. 

Oh, dear. 

I step towards his bed again, this time grasping his knee and shaking it violently a few times. 

"Wha-- what?" 

"Ray, you aren't going to sleep in your clothes, are you?" I ask. He gets rather an indignant look on his face. But before he can use it, I say, "At least take off your boots, all right?" 

He sits up wearily, and looks down at his feet. "Right. You're right, Frase, 'course. I do not want to sleep with my boots on." 

He begins taking off his boots. First one, then the other. 

Then he takes off his T-shirt and throws it on a chair. 

I know he thinks his musculature is underdeveloped... But, to me, it is lovely to look at. I know he isn't as broad shouldered as I am or as filled out. But, to me, he is beautiful, in the long, lithe way that a ballet dancer is beautiful. Well, I guess he is a dancer, of sorts. 

Ray is unzipping his jeans, yawning mightily now. He stands, almost falls over, and then regains his balance and shoves them down off his hips, to his thighs. He wriggles a little and his jeans drop to the floor. He steps out of them. 

Ray has nothing on now, but his briefs. 

He leaves the jeans where they are on the floor, sits back down on the bed, and stretches out. He looks up at the ceiling again. 

"I am so tired. So tired. Tired of it all, Fraser. You have no idea." 

I have some idea, but I say, "At least it is all over now, Ray." 

"Thank God." 

He rolls over onto his side, the side near me. Ray looks at me and yawns. 

I hope that he can not see how tight my pants feel right now. What an absolute beast I am. 

"Thanks Fraser. For..." he trails off. "Thanks for everything. Not just now, but... everything. All the cases. But especially this one." 

"You're... you're very welcome, Ray." 

"I'm lucky to have a partner like you, Frase. I gotta say. I know I'm babbling here... but I know it's true." 

I blush, but thank him. 

"Okay, nighty-night," he says. Another enormous yawn nearly splits his head. I wonder if he realizes he said "nighty-night". He might not... 

"Good night, Ray," I say, and back away until I can turn around to walk out, only slightly awkwardly. 

"Hey, Fraser?" he calls after me, as I am just about to shut his bedroom door. 

"Yes, Ray?" 

"You can stay on the couch, if you want," he says. It's said casually, but there's a plaintive note underneath. 

I sigh. Will this never end?  But on the heels of that thought comes a welling shame. Shame that I persist in thinking about Ray the way I do, even in the aftermath of this terrible day, past few days. I must stop thinking about him this way. I must put all my effort into doing so. It isn't about me and what I want, what I long for. It's about him, and what he needs from me as a friend. 

"All right, Ray," I tell him after a pause. "I'll stay on the couch." 

"Cool. 'Night..." he trails off. 

"Good night," I reply. I hope he has not heard the sigh in my voice. 

I go into the kitchen and make sure all the dishes are in the sink. No need to run a dishwasher load with only a few plates and two pots. I make a mental note to wash them in the morning. 

I feel my arousal ebb and that itchy, deflated feeling that accompanies it. If I were in my own room... at the Consulate... but I can not do that here. In Ray's house. With him in the other room. After everything that has happened to him today... 

It seems so wrong to use Ray, even if only in my mind, as a vehicle for my own pleasure -- today more than ever. To use thoughts of him along with my hand for self-soothing purposes... The pleasure is ultimately negated by the torture, anyway -- the torment of knowing my thoughts and feelings are all in vain. (This never stopped me before, however, when I just could _not_ abstain any longer... and no doubt it will not stop me in the future, when I once again cannot stand it any longer, and must....) 

Well, all right, there are those fleeting moments when my heartbeat is racing, the sweat breaks on my brow, and my brain is overcome with a soft, unthinking pleasure, a soothing numbness of calm, and the split-second illusions that all is right with the world, and that maybe this _could_ happen in real life with the real Ray Kowalski.... 

"Fleeting" is the operative word, there. 

I indulge in my thoughts of Ray far more often than I indulge in their physical counterpart. The thoughts are easier to justify, and the aftermath less... disheartening. 

I walk back to the living room, and sit down on the couch. I could sleep in my clothes, but that would be uncomfortable, as Ray's apartment is always on the warmer side. I remove my shoes, take off my shirt, remove my undershirt, and... well, there's an afghan Ray's mother made on the back of the sofa. I guess I can take my jeans off... but I'll put them on as soon as I wake up. I wish I had my union suit... I'd feel so much more... _covered_. But the afghan will have to do. 

I lay down on the couch and pull the afghan off the back of it. Its soft and nubbly texture feels good as I cover myself. The couch is not quite long enough for me. I will have to curl up on my side, but that is all right. For now, I lay on my back with my feet hanging off the armrest. 

There is a slight depression in the one corner. The corner where I have laid my head. This is the one where Ray usually sits, when he sits at home watching television or doing work on his coffee table with the television on. 

It smells like him. 

I turn my face into the back cushions, and inhale deeply the scent of the one person in the world I want so much, and who I can never have.  
  

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Dara, Eugenie, Mirna and Lee for beta comments; and to Lee for inspiring this alternate ending.


End file.
